Ranajit Guha & Subaltern Studies


This article will be exploring Ranajit Guha and Subaltern Studies, the significance of Guha's contributions to historiography and the emergence of the Subaltern Studies collective and the relevance of understanding subaltern perspectives in postcolonial studies and challenging dominant historical narratives. This is not just an academic pursuit - it holds relevance and impacts our lives in various ways. So, let's explore together how it connects to our experiences, challenges our perspectives, and opens new avenues for understanding.

Ranajit Guha was an influential Indian historian and one of the founding members of the Subaltern Studies collective. Born in 1923, Guha played a crucial role in developing the field of Subaltern Studies, which emerged as a significant intellectual movement in the 1980s. He played a central role in the development of the Subaltern Studies project, a significant historiographical endeavor focused on the history of colonial India. The project spanned twelve edited volumes of historical scholarship published between 1982 and 2005. Guha edited the first six volumes, and subsequent volumes were edited by other scholars associated with the project, many of whom he had mentored or influenced.

The Subaltern Studies collective aimed to challenge traditional historiography and provide an alternative perspective on the history of South Asia by focusing on the experiences and agency of marginalized groups. The term "subaltern" refers to individuals or groups who are socially and politically marginalized, often belonging to lower castes, indigenous communities, peasants, or other disadvantaged sections of society. Guha's work and ideas played a pivotal role in shaping the theoretical framework and direction of the Subaltern Studies project.

Subaltern Studies emerged as a prominent current in historical thought during the late 20th century and was responsive to changes in the prevailing intellectual climate. While initially associated with the "history from below" approach, which emphasized the study of marginalized and oppressed groups, the project also drew inspiration from structuralism, poststructuralism, and post-colonial theory. The endorsement of the project by Edward Said, the influential postcolonial theorist, and the significant dialogue between Guha and Gayatri Spivak, another leading postcolonial theorist, further contributed to the project's influence and its alignment with post-colonial theory.

Subaltern Studies can be understood as a sustained dialogue, sometimes contentious, with the powerful and influential Marxist legacy in South Asian historical scholarship. Many of the project's leading historians had established their reputations within a broadly Marxist scholarly milieu. However, Subaltern Studies positioned itself as an internal critique of both Left scholarship and politics.

To understand Guha's trajectory and the development of Subaltern Studies, it is important to consider the intellectual and political context in which he operated. Guha was born in 1923 in East Bengal, which is now part of Bangladesh. He was educated in Calcutta and became involved in left-wing student activism during the 1940s, the final years of British rule in India. After India gained independence in 1947, Guha was sent to Europe as a student representative by the Communist Party of India. His travels and exposure to different political and intellectual currents shaped his thinking.

Two crucial processes influenced Guha during this period. The first was the spread of radical historical scholarship, particularly associated with the "history from below" approach and the work of scholars like Eric Hobsbawm, E.P. Thompson, and George Rude in the United Kingdom. This approach emphasized studying the experiences of oppressed groups, such as workers and peasants, on their own terms and understanding their struggles against oppression and resistance. Guha was also deeply influenced by the Italian Marxist Antonio Gramsci, who emphasized the importance of a Marxist politics that extended beyond the industrial working class to include all subordinated and oppressed groups. Gramsci's concept of the "subaltern" as a bloc of subordinated classes resonated with Guha's understanding of Indian realities, where social relations and oppositions were complex and could not be reduced to a simplistic binary between bourgeoisie and proletariat.

The second process that shaped Guha's trajectory was the political and intellectual churning on the left in the post-World War II era. While the working class in the industrialized West appeared to be integrated into liberal-democratic capitalism, revolutionary movements dominated by peasants and tribal groups were emerging in many parts of the Third World. Maoism gained popularity during this period, and its emphasis on revolutionary violence and engagement with the poorest of the poor appealed to many activists and scholars in societies marked by extreme exploitation and social inequalities. In India, the Naxalite movement, inspired by Maoism, sought to mobilize peasants and agricultural laborers in armed resistance against oppressive landlords and the state. Guha's encounter with young Maoist militants in the early 1970s deepened his interest in peasant studies and the history of rural radicalism.

Guha and his fellow scholars within the Subaltern Studies collective sought to give voice to these marginalized groups by examining their experiences and perspectives. They critiqued dominant narratives that tended to focus on the actions and motivations of the ruling elites, arguing that such narratives overlooked the agency and resistance of subaltern groups.

Guha's own contributions to Subaltern Studies were significant. In his influential book Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India (1983), he analyzed various peasant uprisings during British colonial rule in India. In this work, Guha challenged the prevailing notion that peasant uprisings during British colonial rule were primarily driven by economic factors. Instead, he argued that these uprisings should be understood as political acts and cultural expressions of resistance. His work highlighted the agency of subaltern groups and emphasized the need for historians to pay attention to their voices and experiences. Guha advocated for a historical methodology that incorporated a more nuanced understanding of power relations, cultural practices, and the complex dynamics of resistance.

The Subaltern Studies collective, including Guha's contributions, had a profound impact on the field of postcolonial studies and influenced scholars across various disciplines. It challenged traditional historical narratives, promoted the study of marginalized communities, and fostered a more inclusive approach to understanding the complexities of colonial and postcolonial societies. Guha examined the narratives of various peasant uprisings and emphasized the agency and consciousness of the subaltern groups involved. He argued that these movements were not mere reactions to economic hardships but were deliberate acts of defiance against oppressive colonial structures. Guha emphasized the significance of local, cultural and ideological elements in shaping the nature of resistance.

Furthermore, Guha introduced the concept of "dominance without hegemony" to understand the relationship between the ruling elites and subaltern groups. He argued that the colonial state in India maintained its dominance through force and coercion rather than through a genuine acceptance or incorporation of the dominant culture. This concept challenged the prevailing notion of cultural hegemony and highlighted the ways in which power was exercised and resisted in colonial societies.

Guha's work also emphasized the importance of grassroots sources and narratives in reconstructing the history of the subaltern. He advocated for a historiographical approach that took into account oral traditions, folklore, songs, and other forms of popular culture as valid sources of historical understanding. This emphasis on alternative sources and perspectives was crucial in challenging the biases and limitations of official records and mainstream historiography. Overall, Guha's contributions to Subaltern Studies helped reshape the field of South Asian history and influenced scholars across disciplines. His emphasis on the agency, consciousness, and cultural dimensions of subaltern groups provided a foundation for the study of marginalized communities and their resistance against colonial domination.

History is not confined to the past; it intertwines with our present and shapes our future. The stories of the subaltern, often obscured or forgotten, remind us of the resilience, the aspirations, and the untapped potential that lies within every marginalized individual and community. May everyone be inspired to dismantle oppressive structures, amplify unheard voices, and forge a path towards a more equitable and inclusive society. 

In the realm of Ranajit Guha and Subaltern Studies, we are confronted with a profound challenge and an extraordinary opportunity. By embracing the subaltern, we illuminate the hidden corners of history, giving voice to the silenced and agency to the marginalized. Let us continue to excavate the narratives of the oppressed, challenge hegemonic discourses, and strive for a world where the subaltern triumphs, and justice prevails.


Wrong Mould

She used to walk to school.

Some boys began to follow.

She stopped walking.

Mom bought her a cycle.


Boys started whistling at her.

She gave up the cycle too.

Dad arranged a rickshaw ride.

But knocks and taunts still grew.


She took the school bus next.

The staff began to leer.

She stopped going to school.

Her silence became clear.


“Why didn’t you react?” they asked.

She looked them in the eye:

"You never allowed me to react—

You only taught me to tolerate.


If I knocked those boys,

You'd call me arrogant.

If I raised my voice,

You’d say I’m defiant.


If I punched those boys,

You’d make me apologise.

If I named the driver,

You’d find fault in me. 


So I stopped reacting—

Not because I didn’t feel.

But so that maybe one day,

You'd learn: children aren't clay to kneel.


We are not to be tuned

To your fears or shame.

You silence our voices,

Then ask why we didn't react."





Masked Days

 Life is not the same as old

Changes came in a single day

World has turned to black and cold

Someone tried the man to slay


Is that easy to make grip hold

In the place where heroes stay?

We made earth into a super mould

Where millions live with hope and pray


Staying apart to fight this foe

And staying along in doing so.

A Final Goodbye

The place that shaped who I am today.

The place that made me feel at home. 

The place that stood by me through every high and low — witnessing 

my successes and my breakdowns.


This is the place that defined me as a Trivian. 

Here, I was never an outsider, never a stranger. 

For the first time, I felt like I truly belonged.


I lived most of my life here.

Ten years is not at all small.

The people, the culture, the language—

Every part of it seeped into me and became a part of who I am.


Leaving this place feels like leaving a piece of myself behind. 

But sometimes, to grow, we must move forward—even if it hurts.


And so, with a heavy heart, I say goodbye. 

Not forever—because no matter where I go, 

this place will always live within me.


The Wish

 A man,

working far from home,

returns on leave

to the warmth of his parents’ waiting arms.


His parents greet him

With love wrapped in complaints—


how the house feels hollow,

how their bones are tired of waiting.

how the walls echo with chores undone.


no one to stir their favourite dishes,

no one to walk beside them to the market,

No one to sit quietly in hospital queues.


The son listens and he speaks gently,

“I cannot stay. My work is away.

If you wish, you can come with me”.


They scoff softly—

“Who asked you to stay?

And we are not leaving our home”.


We just need someone… Someone…

to look after us…to manage the home.

You know… someone like—”

And they left the sentence unfinished.


But it hangs in the air,

heavy and familiar.

He smiled and said, “I understood.”

“Before I go, I’ll fulfil your wish.”


“The one who may stay will come tomorrow”

He said while serving the dish.

“If your heart says no, please don’t hesitate—

A wrong choice leaves a deep scar.”


The couple dreamt of wedding bells,

bangles in the kitchen, anklets on the staircase

a new voice filling the gaps that

Their son’s absence leaves.


They woke up early, swept the yard,

Lay fresh flowers at the door,

prepare sweets, and wait —

for welcoming the bride.


A knock. They opened the door—

Stand still. Their smiles fade.

Not because of the stranger,

But because of their shattered expectation.


Their expectation met reality in the

quiet space between tradition and time.

She was not their bride, draped in customs,

but a caregiver, hired, trained and paid.


She’s not a daughter-in-law.

Not a replacement for the one they imagined.

And she won’t bend under the weight

of generations of unpaid labour.


She’s just a person — doing a job,

no man was ever asked to do.


First published in Muse India

इन्द्रधनुष

आ गई आसमान उसकी हथेली चूमने,
सबने देखा — आँखों के सामने।
फिर भी सिर्फ़ उसी को मिली वो रौशनी,
क्योंकि वो थी मेहनत की असली कमाई।

पहुंचा वो सागर की गहराइयों तक,
अकेला था — मगर हिम्मत नहीं छोड़ी।
मिल गए मोती — जलपरियों की गोद से,
बुन ली उसने खुशियों की मोतियों वाली माला।

धरती को उसने स्वर्गराज्य बना डाला,
इस बार वो अकेला नहीं था।
सबने थामा हाथ — बनी एक नई बात,
साथ हो तो सात समंदर भी कम पड़ जाएं।

Slap

How can you raise a hand —

Against the person you claim to love the most?
Is that act justified because you’re a man?
Or because anger took over, 
momentarily blinding your conscience?

Is anger a good enough reason –

To disrespect another human?
To forget what it means to be humane?
To toss compassion out the window
and let your temper do the talking?

Because if we all did that —
if we all acted on every flash of fury,
Where would we end up?
What kind of world would that be?

Or…

Is that rage just a Masculine Privilege?
Reserved for men, like some inherited Crown of Fire?
Does your strength begin and end with your fists?
Is that what makes you a man?

The bruises she hides?
The silence she keeps?
You say it’s love.
But — Since when does love come with wounds?

They called you Kalippan — 
short-tempered, a little rough around the edges.
They called her your Kanthari —
sharp-tongued, fiery, a perfect match.

They said,

“You two fight, but oh, how much you love each other.”
“She’s the only one who can handle him.”
“It’s just the way he is.”
“And he has a Heart of Gold.”

But here’s the truth:

That Kalippan-Kanthari fire was fun…
Until it burned her skin.
Until her spark started dimming under the weight of his rage.
Until she couldn’t tell if he was holding her hand or about to hit again.

What happens –

When the passion turns to punishment?
When Kalippan stops loving and starts breaking?
When Kanthari starts hiding in corners,
counting his moods like landmines?

And still—

He brings flowers,
mumbles “sorry,”
says “I didn’t mean it.”
And she wants to believe him.

But tell me —
How many apologies can cover up a scar?
How many times can “I love you”
Follow a raised hand?

But the cycle repeats 
And the apology sounds like insult,
And love tastes like fear.

Still they ask her –

To stay.
To adjust.
To forgive.

For the sake of marriage.
For the sake of children.
For the sake of peace.

But Peace – is not built on fear.
Not on broken bones and silenced screams.
And Love — Real Love —
Doesn’t come with a side of Violence.

It’s Time –
To stop Romanticizing Rage.
To stop calling Temper “Cute.”
To stop saying, “that’s just how he is.”

It’s Time –
To stop asking Kanthari to keep burning quietly,
while the Kalippan throws fire like he owns it.

Because –

She is not his matchstick.
She is not his punching bag.
She is not here to absorb his storms.

She is fire too.

But hers —
hers is the kind that Glows,
not the kind that Scars.

First published in Madras Courier

Merlin

Our first meeting was awkward and weird 
At the district veterinary hospital— 
Seeing you playing inside the Bolero, 
I was more excited to see you than my brother. 

Each time I came to your home, 
I looked forward to meeting and playing with you. 
I think you were more excited than me— 
Lonely, perhaps, and waiting for someone like me. 

I felt sad when you couldn’t play during your estrus cycle, 
And I was shattered when they said you had kidney stones. 
The last time I met you, 
You looked so tired—aged, and weary. 

My heart broke the day I heard you were no more. 
It’s been a long time, and no one’s replaced you. 
You were my first love, 
The one I always wished for but couldn’t keep. 

Maybe that’s why I see you in my neighbour’s pet— 
And sneak onto the terrace each evening, 
Just to watch them play the way we used to. 
Maybe that’s because I still miss you.


Love


Is it easy… to find Love?
Or is it just a dream we dress up in fairy lights,
a Word – we chase –
in movies, songs and stories
that end before real life begins?

Who is the worthy one?
Do we find them by chance or choice?
A friend who knows all your awkward silences?
A cousin who grew up under the same sky?
That stranger you pass every day but never speak to?

Or is it…
the one your parents pick,
folded inside a photograph and a biodata?
Will they be the one?
The chosen one?

The one fate whispered your name to —
before either of you even learned to spell love?
They call it a Soulmate –
a half that fits your missing whole.
A destined match – a cosmic bond, written in stars.

But for me?
I don’t know, I really doubt it.
I doubt there’s someone out there,
already shaped to fit the cracks in me.

I doubt – that I’ll find someone,
whose love doesn’t end –
in lawyers and loneliness
and silent dinners with louder silences.

Because – as we age,
Our checklist grows longer.
Our patience gets shorter.
Our hearts grow cautious.
Not colder — but careful.

And love?

It’s no longer just butterflies.
It’s building a home without breaking yourself.
It’s staying when leaving looks easier.
It’s effort. It's honesty.

It’s someone willing to try —
even on days when they fail.
So maybe…
love isn’t about finding the one.

Maybe love is not to find,
but made, unmade, and made again.
Maybe love isn’t about fate.
Maybe it’s about showing up.

Maybe it’s about choosing someone —
again, and again, and again —
even when the magic wears off
and all that’s left is truth.

We seek not just a pretty face—
but one who stays through storms and years.
Not flawless, but forgiving
Not perfect — but human.


What's in a Name!

A name is born before a child,
long ago in a guardian’s mind.

Names carry choices —
some personal, some imposed,
yet they become burdens, they become chains,
echoing the owner's dislike and despair.

Burdened by childhood nicknames, 
hidden in shame and disgust,
never to be revealed in public.

Dislike deepens in a pool of names —
some too common, others too rare,
leaving one to wonder:
"Did my parents search hard enough?"

Some stand alone, others hold bold initials, 
some stretch long with surnames trailing behind.
A few are short, easy to call and recall,
while others demand a breath to pronounce.

Only a few escape the clutches of clichés.
Most carry caste, creed, religion, or gender,
marking identities before one arrives.

Before one is heard, before one is seen,
their name comes first —
dragging along prejudices, biases, assumptions, and expectations.

A name is a blueprint one carries everywhere,
used by others to define, dissect, and judge.

Yet, we ask - "What's in a Name?"

To my Rohitian

I entered a class where bonds were already formed,

Friends and gangs, their lives entwined.

The first bench near the door stood bare,

So I claimed a seat, without much care.


You came, surprised, to see me there,

A stranger occupying your usual lair.

Yet, with no complaints, you broke the ice, 

Introduced yourself with your usual smile.


I jotted down your name, on the back of my rough note,

As I was terrible with remembering new names.

Little did I know then that, 

Your name would be etched into my heart forever.


I still recall the games we played,

Just the two of us, in between the classes.

The long list of players we penned,

Still lies before me, as a timeless memory.


Even after college, the random meets and hangouts,

Your unexpected calls, texts, and those random pics, 

And everything that reminds me of you,

Fill my world with immense joy.


I dream of a day when we’ll stand side by side,

Cheering our team with unshaken pride.

While the Paltan roars and the Wankhede turns blue,

I’ll be there with you, my Rohitian.



Calangute

In a distant land 600 miles from home,

We wandered through the market squares seeking souvenirs.

Tasting the cool Serradura dessert,

Googling nervously to check if it was laced with alcohol - 

A tradition Portugese used to follow.


The photographer in you came alive again,

Capturing every promising view the place had to offer.

You never grew tired of my endless demands - 

Photo after photo, your phone gallery brimming with moments.


Listening to the songs of Calangute’s waves,

We strolled across the wet sands, 

Barefoot - holding chappals in our hands,

Sharing millions and trillions of stories,

And never once did my ceaseless chatter annoy you.


As the sun sank into the sea,

We turned back, trusting the landmark I’d set in my mind.

But who knew that "I Love Goa" was a recurring sign, dotting every corner?

That’s when I realized - we were hopelessly lost,

Adrift in a place unfamiliar and strange.


You stepped up without hesitation,

Google Maps in hand, guiding - calm and composed.

While I was exhausted from the two hour stride through the sand,

And seamlessly dragging and nagging you back.


Through the abandoned streets we walked,

Haunted by the silence, imagining shadows of Goan dons

And drug mafias lurking with modern machine guns.

Yet, irony weaved its charm,

Getting lost in Goa became my greatest adventure.


From that day onwards, you’ve stood by my side,

Through thick and thin, my guardian angel,

Scolding and consoling me whenever it was necessary,  

Solving life’s riddles with quiet strength,

That only a best friend can do.



To the Guardian of Wild

You were such a weaver of tales,

Your stories spread beyond our classes.

I first heard of those awkward moments,

You experienced near the mangrove roots.


Whenever you shared your journeys wide,

With that enthusiastic enigma inside.

Through your words, I heard the waves roar,

And glimpse the tiger behind that rock.


You took me along on each vivid trip,

Through simple narratives, I'd eagerly sip.

Please don't post those underwater picture of yours,

As those Lakshadweep snaps lives in the dreams I reap.


Now you walk from our classroom walls to nature’s heart, 

Where the wild calls you to keep its secrets,  

But I’m pretty sure they’ll fly off through Tripura’s winds,

To make a legend in Fortune’s lore.


You leave behind millions of thoughts,

Memories woven and lessons taught.

Each growing tree I pass near,

Will echo your voice of carbon sinks.


The Sennas, Lantanas and the Society we live in,

Will forever remind me of your legacy left behind.

A heartfelt farewell to you as you embrace,

A new chapter in your life with strength and grace.



On Your Special Day...

Started as just classmates,

We came a long way.

The day I chose to sit by you—

One of my best decisions. 


Side by side, we shared it all,

Snacks, Jokes, Secrets, and Notes.

Bringing my favorite fries and pickles,

You patiently tolerated my slow-eater ways.

 

Extending our short trips together -

from washrooms to canteens.

The best were those film and book fests,

But our secret Library dates stand apart.

 

Sneaking around each floor and shelves, 

Of various libraries we accessed,

Searched for those books and notes,

A few dared to take till then.


Together we weaved out our precious memories, 

Now our galleries are full of those moments we caught.

Beyond those college walls, we stayed so close,

Our friendship grew and families met.


You even shared your best friends with me,

And that’s a gift I’ll not forget.

Through every high and every low,

You’re by my side, steadfast and true.


As we celebrate your another year of joy,

And so I wish, on this special day,

"Two years from now, we’ll be right there,

Celebrating this day at the place of our dreams".



Admirable Pride

In a world of change, perspectives unfold,

Yet those who cling to old views untold,

Are ill-equipped to judge their fellow kin,

Bound by binaries, boxed within.


For them, it's either black or white,

No room for hues that challenge their sight,

Deviation from this ancient norm,

Brands one an enemy, a social storm.


The rainbow, a symbol of diversity's grace,

But confined within he or she - a limited space, 

Its beauty fades in the eyes that gaze,

Condemning it, a sentiment that stays.


But the world evolves, attitudes new,

A hopeful future for generations, true,

May they welcome the rainbow's embrace,

Free from bias, in every space.


Let intolerances fade, let hearts be free,

Where rainbows thrive in harmony,

A world where colors dance and blend,

A future where all discriminations end.


Together we strive, hand in hand,

To build a world that will withstand,

The tests of time, the bonds we share,

Where rainbows shine, and all hearts care.


റുക്സാർ

ജനൽ അഴികൾക്കിടയിലൂടെ റുക്സാറിന് അവളെ കാണാം. കാത്തിരിപ്പിന്റെ മുഷിച്ചിലിനേക്കാൾ വന്നുചേരാൻ പോകുന്ന നേട്ടത്തിന്റെ സന്തോഷമാണ് അവളിൽ. അവളുടെ ദൃഢതയാർന്ന  കണ്ണുകൾ റുക്സാറിന് തന്റെ പ്രതിബിംബം കാട്ടിക്കൊടുത്തു. 

താൻ ആകെ മാറിയിരിക്കുന്നു. കാലം അങ്ങനെയാണ്. മനുഷ്യരെ വേഗം വൃദ്ധരാക്കും. 

നദീമുമായി നിക്കാഹ് കഴിഞ്ഞു മുണ്ടക്കയത്തേക്ക് വരുമ്പോൾ തനിക്ക് വെറും പത്തൊൻപതു മാത്രം പ്രായം. വരുന്ന ആലോചനകൾ മുടങ്ങുന്നത് പതിവായപ്പോൾ പ്രായം പോയതറിഞ്ഞില്ല. ഒരു പെങ്ങൾ മാത്രം വീട്ടിൽ നിൽക്കുന്നത് കുടുംബത്തിന് നാണക്കേടാകുന്നു എന്നായപ്പോൾ അണ്ണച്ചിമാർ സ്വന്തം സുഹൃത്തിനെ അളിയനാക്കി. 

നദീമിന്റെ വീട്ടുകാരുമായി ഒത്തു പോകാൻ വളരെ ബുദ്ധിമുട്ടായിരുന്നു. അവരുടെ എതിർപ്പ് വകവയ്ക്കാതെ നടന്ന വിവാഹം ആയതിനാൽ ദിവസേന പ്രശ്നങ്ങൾ മുളപൊക്കിക്കൊണ്ടേയിരുന്നു. തൊട്ടതിനും പിടിച്ചതിനും വഴക്കാണ്, വിട്ടുകൊടുക്കാൻ റുക്സാറിനും ആയില്ല.

താമസം മാറുകയല്ലാതെ വേറെ വഴിയില്ല എന്നായപ്പോൾ തന്റെ  വിഹിതമായി കിട്ടിയ മൂന്നു സെന്റിൽ ഒരു വീട് പണിയാം എന്ന് നദീം സമ്മതം മൂളി.  

ഒരു ആവശ്യം വരുമ്പോൾ കുടുംബക്കാർ ബദ്ധവൈരികളാകുമല്ലോ. ഇവിടെയും പ്രത്യേകിച്ച് മാറ്റമൊന്നും സംഭിച്ചില്ല. ബിയാനി സേട്ടിൽ നിന്നും അഞ്ഞൂറ് രൂപ റൊക്കം വാങ്ങി വീടുപണി പൂർത്തിയാക്കി. നദീമിന്റെ പച്ചക്കറിക്കട കൊണ്ടു മാത്രം കടം വീട്ടാൻ ആകില്ലെന്ന് ഉറപ്പായപ്പോൾ റുക്സാർ തയ്യൽ ഒരു തൊഴിലായി സ്വീകരിച്ചൂ.

സാഹിലിന്റെ ജനനത്തോടെ എല്ലാം ഒന്ന് കരയ്ക്കടിയാൻ തുടങ്ങി. ഹയയും അയാനും കഷ്ടപ്പാടുകൾ അറിയാതെയാണ് വളർന്നു വന്നത്. സൈമയുടെ വരവിനായി കാത്തുനിൽക്കാതെ നദീം പോയപ്പോൾ എല്ലാം റുക്സാറിന്റെ ഉത്തരവാദിത്വം ആയി. സമ്പത്ത് കണ്ട് അടുത്തൂകൂടാൻ വന്ന ആരെയും റുക്സാർ കണ്ടതായി ഭാവിച്ചില്ല. 

തന്റെ മക്കൾ വിദ്യാസമ്പന്നർ മാത്രം ആയാൽ പോര, അവർ  സാമ്പത്തികമായി സ്വതന്ത്രരായിരിക്കണമെന്ന് റുക്സാറിന് നിർബന്ധമുണ്ടായിരുന്നു. പക്ഷേ അവർ തന്നെ ഉപേക്ഷിച്ച് വെളി നാടുകളിൽ പോകുമെന്ന് റുക്സാർ കരുതിയില്ല. ഇതൊന്നും റുക്‌സാറിനെ തളർത്തിയതുമില്ല. പക്ഷേ റുക്സാർ ജീവിച്ചിരിക്കുന്നുവോ എന്നു പോലും അന്വേഷിക്കാൻ അവർ താൽപ്പര്യം പ്രകടിപ്പിച്ചില്ല.

സൈമയിൽ  മാത്രമാണ് രുക്സാറിന് തന്റെ പ്രതിച്ഛായ കാണുവാൻ കഴിഞ്ഞത്. നാടും വീടും അവൾക്ക് സ്വർഗമായിരുന്നൂ. സൈമയ്ക്ക് പിന്മുറക്കാർ ഇല്ലാത്തതിൽ റുക്സാറിന് നിരാശ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നു. എങ്കിലും അത് പുറത്തു കാട്ടിയില്ല എന്ന് മാത്രം.  തന്റെ മറ്റു കൊച്ചുമക്കളെ നേരിൽ കാണാനും കഴിഞ്ഞിരുന്നില്ല.

അങ്ങനെയിരിക്കെയാണ് ഒരു ദിവസം എല്ലാവരെയും കാണണം എന്ന് തോന്നിയത്. ആ യുവതിയുടെ, തന്നെ നോക്കിയുള്ള നിൽപ്പ് റുക്സാറിന് അതിന്റെ കാര്യം വ്യക്തമാക്കി കൊടുക്കുകയും ചെയ്തു. 

മക്കളും ചെറുമക്കളും ഒക്കെ വന്നു തുടങ്ങി. അതെ, അവൾ ഇപ്പോഴും അവിടെ തന്നെയുണ്ട്. അവളുടെ ആകർഷണ വലയത്തിലേക്ക് വഴുതി വീഴുന്നതായി റുക്സാറിന് അനുഭവപ്പെട്ടു. ഇല്ല, അവൾക്ക് തന്നെ ജയിക്കാനാവില്ല. 

ഒരു നേർത്ത പുഞ്ചിരിയോടെ റുക്‌സാർ തനിക്കരികിലേക്ക് നടന്നടുത്ത ഇനായത്തിനെ നോക്കി. സൈമ പറഞ്ഞു റുക്സാറിന് ഇനായത്തിനെ അറിയാം. തന്നെ വാർത്തുവച്ചിരിക്കുന്ന പിൻഗാമി. ആദ്യമായി കാണുകയാണ്, പക്ഷെ  ജന്മാന്തര അടുപ്പം തോന്നുന്നുണ്ട്. അതെ താൻ തന്നെയാണ് ഇനായത്ത്.

സംതൃപ്തിയോടെ റുക്‌സാർ ജനൽപാളികൾക്കിടയിലൂടെ  കണ്ണോടിച്ചു. അവളുടെ ചിരി മായ്ഞ്ഞിരിക്കുന്നു. തന്നെ ജയിക്കാനാകില്ലെന്ന് അവൾക്ക് ഉറപ്പായിരിക്കുന്നു. അതെ താൻ അജയ്യയാണ്. 




Chum

Same traits we both share,

Born from two different wombs,

Only have one heart.


Colors



करती हैं सूरज, आसमान को रोशन
करेंगी होली ज़िन्दगी को रंगीन।

A Night at 7F

It was a hectic day for Aarna. She reached home late. Without taking a shower she lay down on the sofa. She was so tired to reach her bed. Her mom went to her masi's home as it was a festive season. Unable to get a leave from her private firm she sent her mom alone. None was there to wake her up for dinner. 

Tiredness woke her up in the middle of the night. As the time passed away she couldn't order anything. She went to the kitchen with her drowsy eyes half-open. She thought of eating bread and jam. But she slipped on the floor as she forgot to switch the light. Somehow she reached the switchboard and switch on the lights. 

They have shifted to the new apartment a month ago. It was her dream to buy a new house in the heart of the city. Even though they owned an ancestral home in the village outskirts, they were living for rental in the city for years. At last, they sold the house and bought this one. 

In the ray of the lights, her heart has shattered into thousand pieces. What she witnessed made her mad. Her dream home seems to be filled with a bunch of people she doesn't recognize. She was fumed with hunger and anger. Some were dancing, some were singing, some were playing and others were engaged in their chit chats and fun. She roared out of her head and everyone was paused and staring at her. She started to question them in such a voice she might have never produced. The room was vibrating with her shrieks. They were dumbstruck and were looking at one another. 

Hearing her shouting, her doorbell rang repeatedly. She remembered what the residence associated told them. They strictly prohibited loud noises in any of the flats. Searching wildly for excuses to make, she reached the door and opened it. But of her unfortunate condition, she collapsed before them. The ones who gathered to confront her took her to the same sofa where she was sleeping a few moments before. They gave her water and she slowly opened her eyes. Before she could inform them about the trespassers in her house, they had vanished. Without an awestruck face, she thanked them for their help.

After they left, she searched everywhere for some clues to find out who came there. But everything was intact in the places as before. In her vagueness, she thought she might have imagined it. Assuming the fantasy for the night was over, she took a shower and went to bed having the sliced loaves of bread. 


"Who was she and where did she vanish? Why she was shouting at us and how did she reach our home? What were all these?" Pragathi asked her cousins scratching her head.


The Flame of Vengeance

You fall in love with me seeing my beauty

I too acted before you that I love you

But I will leave you the day I become your addiction

I will neither let you laugh nor cry in peace

I will stay in your thoughts and memories 

And not even let you have a sound sleep.

I am planning to break your heart so terribly

And going to give you the pain you gave me

After making you meet with death, I will leave you alive

To leave someone dying, breaking and yearning is so enjoyable 

And who knows this better than you

This blaze of fire will settle all the scores between us.

I am not going to let my eyes get damp for you

And I won’t allow you to be my weakness.

With a broken heart I was taught to smile and move ahead

Your betrayal has taught me to handle myself.

The flames has not only given me a new face

But also it made me rise from this ashes as a Phoenix.



Click here to watch the original work (song).


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